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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25416046">Dance Lessons</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bandwidthlimit/pseuds/bandwidthlimit'>bandwidthlimit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Leverage Ficlets [21]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Leverage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:33:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>808</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25416046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bandwidthlimit/pseuds/bandwidthlimit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sophie was surprised to find that Nate Ford couldn't dance. It was an inopportune time to figure it out, too, because they were currently trying to waltz their way toward an exit.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sophie Devereaux/Nathan Ford</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Leverage Ficlets [21]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840567</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Dance Lessons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sophie was surprised to find that Nate Ford couldn't dance. It was an inopportune time to figure it out, too, because they were currently trying to waltz their way toward an exit. Nate had been chasing her across Italy for two months, and unfortunately for both of them, he hadn't been subtle about it. Sophie had recently stolen one of the Muzoni family heirlooms. Or, rather, she hadn't stolen it, exactly. She'd inherited it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But, thanks to Nathan Ford, who was stepping on her toes, Pasquale Muzoni had taken it upon himself to look a little deeper into her identity as Isabella Moretti, lost cousin to the recently passed Boss Muzoni, who had been, until recently, the proud owner of Botticelli's 'Venus and Mars,' which had been shipped to London two weeks prior to Sophie's ill fated dance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is all your fault,” she hissed at him, then winced as he trod on her very expensive shoe and rather sensitive toe. “Who taught you how to waltz?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My mother-in-law,” he muttered, in between '1, 2, 3... 1, 2, 3.'</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She didn't do a very good job,” Sophie quipped, steering him between another couple. Muzoni was scanning the crowd for them, and if Nate didn't start blending in soon and stop looking at his feet, they were done for. She was done for. “When was the last time you danced?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My wedding. Three years ago.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sophie resisted the urge to pray, and griped instead, “I hope you were better than this with your wife.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not really,” he at least had the grace to sound sheepish, and finally looked up at her between stumbles. Sophie valiantly ignored the flop in her stomach. His eyes were very, very blue at this distance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, consider this your first and only formal lesson, since you've got to get this right in a very short time. Lesson one, stop your bloody counting, it's driving me crazy. Lesson two, just let me lead.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stopped, and she took over, guiding them more gracefully across the dance floor, away from where Muzoni was starting to push through waltzing couples. “I can't believe you led him here from Tuscany.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because it's my fault that you lied to him and stole his uncle's painting.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>inherited</span>
  </em>
  <span> his uncles painting, thank you very much.” She stomped his foot in retaliation, and used his flinch of pain to shove him out the door she'd brought them to. He recovered gracefully in the hallway and turned to face her, drawing himself up to his full height and dropping the simpering act. Sophie didn't let it phase her, meeting him eye to eye with her hands on her hips. “You owe me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don't owe you anything,” he took three long steps toward her, herding her in toward the door. Her breath caught in her throat, and she let it out in a string of profanity as the snick of a handcuff sounded and cold metal curled around her wrists.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You bastard.” She had to admit that he'd hidden the cuffs like a pro. She hadn't even seen the glint.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door jerked behind them, and Sophie tried to jerk away from it. Nate pressed her back against it and held her there. “Wait,” his voice is quiet and dark. “You can call me whatever name you want on the trip to prison, but right now, shut up and let me get us out of this.” The door jiggled again, and Sophie's world spun and stopped when Nate's lips touched hers, and the soft moan she heard absolutely in no way came from her. Nate's hands came up to her face, and Sophie brought hers up into his jacket, half to hide the cuffs and half because she wanted to touch him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He rolled them away from the door and it opened forcefully, Muzoni and his men streaming into the hallway. Nate lifted his head and Sophie gave an embarrassed little noise (not entirely falsified), and hid her face in Nate's neck. It served dual purposes – this way, Muzoni couldn't see her face (he hadn't actually met Nate, just taken his phone call), and she could smell his cologne and the sharp smell of his body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It didn't help her listen to him talk their way out of this. She fished through his pockets as discretely as possible, fingers curling around his keys. She pulled them from his pocket disguised under the sound of footsteps receding down the hallway, and followed him meekly to the exit. She let him get her into the car, and while he was rounding for the drivers side, she unlocked the cuffs and helped herself out, leaving the keys on the drivers seat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lesson three,” she smiled at him over the roof of the vehicle and took a few steps back. “Where you lead, I don't follow.”</span>
</p>
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